Supernatural One-Shots

Daddy!Dean: (T) You're gonna be fine, sweetheart

Dean finds his daughter self harming in the middle of the night and she cuts too deep, making him take her to the hospital to get patched up, and when they get home he talks it out with her and calms her down.

It's in the middle of the night when I wake up in my own bed. There's silence everywhere except for the crow in the tree outside my bedroom window. My bedroom door is slightly opened like it always is when I go to sleep, just to have that tiny shimmer of light into my room.
I sit up and start pondering on the question; what made me wake up? I look out of the window for a little while, just watching the life outside my room, the crow with her nest in the top of the tree, a car driving by now and then on the road, the stars scattered around on the cloudless night sky. And then I remember how crappy I've felt lately.
I drag my sixteen year old self out of bed and I walk over to the door and open it, just looking around the hallway where there's still light. I want to cut. I need to cut, and I can't wait.
As the light is still on, I keep wondering if dad's awake but I can't care about that now. Perhaps he's passed out on the couch in front of the TV as he does some nights, or maybe he's drinking and forgot the time. I tiptoe across the hallway and duck into the bathroom, turning on the light, closing the door behind me and walking over to the counter, getting a little bag dad thinks is a makeup-bag, out of the closet and put it on the edge of the sink. I open it before I roll up the sleeves of my pink and red-striped pajama sweater I always sleep in, to make me feel like I'm still a child sometimes, that I still have the innocence I had.
I pick up one of my razorblades; I picked it out from a razor I stole from dad a couple of weeks ago. He still hasn't noticed, I guess. It's not rusty like some of them are starting to become; I look at it a little before I hold it to my wrist, a little over the aorta, letting it slide ever so slightly across my underarm. There's pain, but the feeling of relief buries it as I see the well-known, red liquid starts running in small drops down my arm. I clench my teeth together; not because it hurts, but to keep myself from crying out. What if Dean Winchester, the greatly skilled, but withdrawn hunter, is still awake and can hear his daughter having a breakdown?
I let the blade slide a little closer to my aorta, still feeling relieved, though the blood starts running a little more the closer I get to the vein. My breath starts getting heavy and I choke on my own tears, why am I doing this, why me? I'm starting to feel dizzy and I kneel down on the floor, still pressing the blade to my wrist, a little too strongly, a little too deep.
I find myself sitting on the floor, bitter, salt tears running down my cheeks, I can't stop them anymore but that's okay because there's nobody here to see my breakdown. The blood floats down my arm and ruins the pair of my pink pajama pants with small prints of pastel butterflies on them. I drop the blade to the floor with a clink, just as I hear footsteps outside the bathroom door. I can't keep the dry sobs back anymore, and I crawl into a fetal position, sobbing like never before as I hear someone knocking on the door and a voice speaking to me.
"Allie, is that you?" Dean asks and I squirm even more for ever word he says.
"Why are you awake at this time?" he asks, waiting a second for my answer which comes out as small gasps for breath. The doorknob rattles and he walks in, startled by the sight of his daughter in a pool of her blood, laying on the floor. "Honey?" he asks, and he kneels down to my side, opening the closet to get the pack of band-aids. As he drops it all and gets me up into a sitting position, he notices the razorblades on the floor and in the sink. "No, sweetheart," he says, and I can hear it in his voice that his heart is breaking. I can't stop crying.
"Baby, did you do this to yourself?" he asks, and I bitterly think, well, who else could have done it?
He pulls up my arm and examines it, before pulling out a band-aid, rolling it around my arm, and then getting a towel to soak up the blood I'm sitting in. He does it all very fast, as if it's a routine, maybe after patching up himself or his brother after endlessly many hunts he was on before he settled down.
"It's gonna need stitches," he says shortly, but I can hear clear and constant worry in his voice. "We're gonna go to the hospital and get you patched up, okay?" He asks, and he pulls me up even though I'm struggling against him, I don't want to go to the hospital, he lifts me up bridal style and doesn't really seem to care about the blood soaking his own t-shirt, the only thing that concerns him is that it's his daughter's blood, she's in pain, she's struggling and she needs to see a doctor.
I'm still sobbing, fighting to get out of his arms when he grabs his jacket with the keys and walks out the door to the Impala, puts me into the shotgun seat, fastens the seat belt and really quickly walks around the car to get into the front seat before I find out I'm gonna try to escape. Luckily for him, I'm too fatigued, and all my spare energy goes to trying to keep the cries back.
"The hospital is not far. We're gonna get you there, we're gonna get you stitches, and then we're gonna go home and you can sleep. Okay, baby? Are you okay?"
I shake my head to him and through the darkness around the car as he's driving down the road, he can see tears glistening all across my face when he looks at me.
"I'm sorry, daddy," I keep sobbing, and he shakes his head. "It's okay, honey, it's gonna be okay, shh," he says on a repeated cycle as he pulls up in the hospital parking lot. He pulls up his jacket that he threw into the back of the car and he puts it around my shoulders when he gets me out of the car and holds my hand as we walk into the hospital entrance.

It's been an hour sitting in a doctor's office on a stretcher while being patched up, my hand in dad's all the time. I had a panic attack while in there and they put off working on my arm, and helped me breathe calmly before the doctor kept on sewing me up. They put on a bandage and talked to dad while I was more or less unconscious.
On the way home neither of us say anything. I'm tired and drained of the blood loss, so dad picks me up bridal style again, carries me inside the house and puts me down in my bed, pulling off my pajama and putting on a clean one. He cringes when he sees all of the dried-up blood, but he carefully tucks me in, kissing my forehead before he heads off to the bathroom to clean up so I won't feel awful tomorrow morning when I go to take a shower or fix myself up.
About half an hour later, I'm still awake, still crying into my pillow so dad won't hear, but the trained ear always hears, and I hear him walk through the hallway and stop by my door and he opens it, letting the light from the hallway fill my room, and he walks over to the bed, carefully pulling off my blanket, sitting down by my side in my twin-sized bed, and he wraps his arm around my trembling body, letting me turn around from the pillow and bury my face in his chest.
"Hey," he whispers. "Hey, it's okay, I'm not mad at you. It's okay, sweetheart. But please talk to me," he begs, "please tell me what's going on with you."
There's a couple of moments where I keep sobbing into his chest, feeling him stroke my hair, my back very lightly, listening to his heartbeat and feeling his calm breath that prevents me from panicking again because daddy's here; he will always keep me safe.
I sit up on my knees, and he straightens up, looking at me, wiping away the tears on my cheeks. His shirt is soaked, he changed it after the hospital trip, and he probably has to change it again. He peeks down on my arms, stroking lightly over the bandages.
"How long has this been going on?" he asks, looking into my eyes again.
"Two years," I sniffle, and see his face crumble a little, his eyes turning sad. "It's just everything, and I... I can't deal with it," I sob, and he pulls me in, letting me cry into his shoulder, while he starts stroking my hair again.
"Have you talked to anyone about this?" he whispers, and I give it a thought before shaking my head, and I hear him swallow, his pulse beating faster, he sniffles. I'm making my dad cry, my strong, caring, kind father.
"Listen, baby, you are not alone in this, okay? You won't ever be alone again, I'm gonna help you fight, do you understand that?" he whispers into my hair. "No more cutting. I promise you, you're gonna be okay. You're gonna be fine, sweetheart."
I keep crying into his shoulder, maybe even more now because of his calming words, life has been hell since I was twelve and I haven't ever known how to deal with it, just knowing that if I told someone, I'd be considered a freak, my dad would put me out on the street because I was a weirdo. I tell him this because I don't wanna bear it alone anymore.
"Listen to me," he says, breaking the hug, placing his strong hands on my shoulders, looking me straight into the eyes. "You are not a freak, okay? I know how you're feeling, hell, I did go through the same as you, I hunted instead of hurting myself, I got wounded in the wars, that was my release. I understand that you need a release, but it's not worth dying over. I'm alive, baby, I turned out fine. You will too, I promise. You have a life so long in front of you, it doesn't end at sixteen. Nothing ends at sixteen. Except, you know..." he nods to my arms. "Except for the fact that you're gonna stop self harming because I'll be there with you ever step of the way. Do you understand that?"
I nod and see the heartbroken look in his eyes as he pulls me into another hug while he slides back down on the pillows, wrapping his arm around me again, laying like we did earlier and he lets me fall asleep feeling safe in his arms.